Orestes and Pylades reincarnated
by qwertysweetea
Summary: Grantaire finds himself sat on the same bench in the same art gallery trying to clear his head, that is until his eye is caught by a certain man in red... then he is plagued by some strange dreams or maybe even memories. Reincarnated AU, modern day.


I know there have been a lot of these going around but I was at an art gallery with my boyfriend today and this sort of happened.

I'm sorry that I don't have the creativity to come up with a better name for Grantaire than Grant, but I think it's easier to read without coming up with something else elaborate and French... plus, it sort of suits him.

For those who haven't read the brick: Hugo used Orestes and Pylades in reference to the relationship between Enjolras and Grantaire in the final battle.

[21/10/2014] I have finally re-written!

Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own Les Misérables or any characters and places associated with Victor Hugo's novel, any screen or stage adaptations and musical soundtracks. No profit is made from the writing for this fanfiction.

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><p>Grant used to visit the gallery a lot after his lectures. It wasn't that he was particularly fond of the work they displayed or that it gave him inspiration. It was because it was quiet and fresh, different from every other aspect of his life. It was a place he could think freely without feeling guilty about it; his mind was always busy with his work, and his friends. Visiting the gallery was the part of his day that wasn't designated to something else.<p>So he visited and occupied the same bench, sheltered by a statue of Orestes and Pylades. He chose it because he had always had a fascination with it, that and it mostly blocked him from view which was always a plus for a building so close to his university campus. Even if someone he knew where to walk past, they would only be able to see the back of his scruffy hair, and they would pass him by without stopping to check if it was him because, let's face it, what would Grant be doing in a place like that?

He wasn't known for being particularly fond of art. Too processed, he had said, because that is what he believed. He'd kept in very firmly too his chest that it was the crisp and clean processed nature of the galleries that had attracted them to him in the first place. It was a breath of fresh air amongst the hectic smog of the city and it was peaceful during the week; he was only ever passed by the odd group of visiting school children or bored looking couple. He would sit with his headphones on, unattached to his cassette player and a latte, preferably vanilla, warming his hands. It was calm. It was perfect.

It hadn't been his intention to visit the gallery that day. He had left his lectures and was heading back to his apartment for a tedious evening of studying when the strong winters wind drove him inside. The steam rising from the coffee gently melted the cold from his cheeks, giving them a rosy glow and sighed contently as it began to melt away the stress.

He had been sat on his bench, lost in deep though when a sharp colour against the whiteness of the walls caught the corner of his eye. They wondered past, red jumper and worn jeans, blonde hair worn just shorter than his though it was hard to tell with the way it was brushed back like some 1950's bad boy. Grant had looked away but then he had looked back.

The man was a few years his junior most certainly, and there was something in his face that he knew. Grant thought a double-take would help him place him but it only went to confuse him further. He had most certainly seen those angelic features before but it was very clear that he never had. There was no way he would have passed that face before without them catching his attention.

The blue eyes flicked up but Grant had forced his eyes to the floor, unaware that the man had given him a sideways glance with much the same confusion. It didn't take him long to leave the gallery after that, and for the first time he could recall he left with more on his mind that when he had entered, and all of the thoughts now geared around the mystery man.

After a lethargic evening, he fell into a restless sleep. He dreamt of nothing but blurred colours; red mixed with black and flashing white light amongst a heavy fog. It was chaotic and fast, and deadly silent. His eyes snapped open, sweat and sleep burning his eyes.

Needless to say it took the forefront of his mind; ahead of his studied, which for Grant was unusual. It was bizarre. Simple colours and a haze, yet it made his chest ache and his throat go tight. He tried to push it too the back of his mind as he took notes on his lecture, ignoring his friends comments on his haggard appearance as he struggled back the strange feelings that tried to bubble their way thought his chest.

If he hadn't needed to go to the gallery yesterday then today was definitely the day he needed it. There was a lot on his mind, and he was pushed on quicker by the possibility of seeing the blonde man from the day before, though he pushed that thought away also and stuck with his original motives.

The weather had only turned harsher and Grant headed up the stairs to the glass fronted building, only briefly pausing to observe the shallow circles of a sleepless night under his eyes. He looked a mess, something he could quite easily say he had avoided, yet it didn't look foreign on him.

He sat at his bench, much more on edge that he ever was, yet still blissfully ignorant that the spurt of abnormal occurances had any ties, more so to the blonde haired man who had wondered round the corner with his eyes to the walls and hands shoved into his pockets.

The boy had come back. As he had the next day, and the next day, and each day Grant saw more and more of the face before it disappeared out of his sight.

First it was his cheekbone and jawline, far more pronounced that he had originally perceived, giving him features so exceptionally pretty he could have passed for a girl, but at the same time Grant became very away that he wasn't a boy any more that he was himself.

Then he saw his eyes; a glittering blue and only a flick in his direction before he snapped his head away in embarrassment, as he did every time. The man had a strong and overbearing presence that seemed to take hold of everything he looked at as if to say 'I own that'. It was suffocating but he enjoyed chocking on it. He would wait until he saw him walk past before he permitted himself to look back and remark to himself uneasily that he was acting like a school boy.

Then there was his voice, ringing out into his mobile phone in hushed and harsh bursts that still carried something soft and beautiful. Though it wasn't spoken to him, Grant felt as if it had crawled its way into his chest and dispersed into liquid pools of weakness in his limbs.

With every sight the dreams became more vivid. It was no longer a suspicion that the dreams had been brought on by the stranger in red, and this was conformed when his face became focused around the haze in Grant's dreams as if he had been there from the beginning.

It was him, undoubtedly but it came in flashes to fast to make sense of.

Grant would be lying if he said that he wasn't suddenly looking forward to his lectures, if only because he knew they gave him an excuse to visit the gallery on the way home. While he was at university he was still the cultured student looking to improve himself rather than the creepy man who hung around the homoerotic statue. It hadn't yet occurred to him that his once-in-a-while stress relief had become an addicting visit to get his fill of intense filled gazing at an unknowing man from behind a statue, followed by confused and often distressing dreams of him.

It was taking its toll. Every morning Grant woke up tired, gone to his lectures, stopped off at his local coffee shop to order something stronger than the day before in hopes that it would keep him awake, though he wouldn't needed it because he would go the gallery and without fail the man would showed up and he would be more awake than he had been all day.

Grant had allowed himself to become a mess. The dark circles had become more pronounced, his hair had become unruly with a lack of treatment to his curls, and he hadn't bothered to shave. Had his roommate not had a slight passion for organisation and planning he was sure he would have still been wearing the same clothes.

He went home, he stared blankly at his work, he drunk and then he fell asleep. He rarely eat now that he drank, and he drank because he wanted the disorientating colours to come faster, though he didn't know it himself. Then he dreamt, and the dreams got more and more intense.

It had been only just less than a fortnight before he had pieced together where his dreams had taken him. A small room crowded with tables and chairs… a bar, a pub maybe. A restaurant. All he knew was that it was old and rickety with dusty windows and splintered beams but that was all he could ever make out before the man took his attention. His face was always stern with hair how he imagined it would be if he grew it out, long and curly, and fallen in his eyes. An angel missing a halo.

But that night's dream took a completely different setting. As far as Grant was aware, he was back in the gallery in front of his statue; Orestes' lifeless face staring down at him put him on edge for once rather than providing comfort. Then a hand pressed his firmly as if it sought to take its place and it was him. Blonde hair framing his face, as marble as the statue and grateful smile painted his slightly parted lips as if he want to speak; Orestes come to life in every way.

He knew it was a dream, somewhere in the blissful gaze of the other but he refused to remind himself. He, the man, had never touched him before and in that moment he was completely content believing it was real. He didn't know his name or who he was, but they had woken a feeling in him that felt like it had been dormant from before he had existed.

Then the hand was gone, and an ungodly pain in his chest ripped him from his dream and from his Orestes. He pealed his face from the leather cushion on his sofa, breath heaving in his lungs as if something had been pressing on his back. He stumbled for his phone before it lit up painfully bright. 4:47am… and he couldn't fall back to sleep.

Another day, tired with a restless sleep. He went to his lecture and then to the coffee shop, ordering his strong coffee before pulling a flask out of his pocket, Irishing it up a little as he walked down that familiar street and up the steps that lead to the open doors of the gallery. Collar popped and jacket pulled tight around him.

For the first time in those 14 days, Orestes had not shown up. Grant tried to push down the feeling of disappointment, convincing himself that he was a fool for overthinking the connection that the two of them, complete strangers who happened to share an interest in Greek fables, shared. The man had never been there for him. I mean look at him, he cursed himself, a mess.

He leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Sleep must have taken him at some point, because he found himself stood back in that old room. His Orestes was looking at him, face as stern as he always pictured it and the room hummed with a dreadful silence. He was scared, it wasn't the comforting yet disorientating scene he was used to… then the man smiled softly, and it seemed so out-of-character yet looked so perfect on him. That hand pressed his again, in the same way it had the day before. He couldn't be scared, not with his hand in the others.

Then he was clutching at his chest, pain radiating through it with no point of origin. It was everywhere and nowhere. The hand was gone. All he could hear was a soft electrical buzzing in his ears and he hit the floor, soft despite the splinted wood. The red was still in the corner of his eye and he was pushed back but still standing and his heart fluttered in gratitude.

Grant thought, feeling a smile crawl onto his lips: _Orestes is alive._

Then he jolted awake, head hitting hard into the wall behind him and he winched, pain radiating though his head, and chest still aching through with the memory that wasn't a memory. Despite it all, he was very aware of someone next to him and with lungs feeling like they had been sucked dry of air he knew who it was.

"Thank-you." The man said, looking at him with an indifferent face that his eyes, or the fear that suddenly swelled in them, betrayed. "I don't know why I said… I just felt like it needed to be said."

Grant nodded. Everything that he had wanted to say to this man over the past fortnight stuck in his throat, and he swallowed it down thickly. The man looked back at him with an expression that reflected his so completely; both overwhelmed, both confused beyond belief, both undeniably scared though scared of what they didn't know.

Nothing needed to be said after that, they both sat comfortably in the company of the other while the confusion and longing from century's worth of absence from each other's lives crushed them and completed them at the same time. The overbearing feelings exploded in them but all they could do was glance at the other from the corner of their eyes like any sudden movement would drive the other away.

Grant slowly lifted his hand and placed it on the blondes shoulder as if he was comforting an old friend, pulling down the fear as far as he could, though it didn't stay down for long. Something electric shot through him, something from out of the dreams… familiar but unknown, his heart lurched in his chest like it was trying to get closer to him, to his heart and he couldn't look at him.

When he regained himself enough to look at his Orestes he was taken aback. The man he had seen as of much marble as the statue had broken down. His face was sullen and tears teetered on his long lashes, looking like a boy who had been separated from his family. He was no longer marble, but he was still _him_, the man he knew and idolised and found himself completely devoted too, yet knew nothing of.

The man placed his hand over Grant's, squeezing it as lightly as he had done in his dreams and just as confidently despite his trembling exterior. "I'm Ewan." He said, voice cracking somewhat under the strained atmosphere and a nervous smile painted his lips.

"I'm Grant." He replied in a similar tone, taking in a shaky breath. "…and I would like to take you for coffee."

His hand was unsteady but the man seemed too taken with the thought that had just left his lips. The hand tightened on his for the briefest time but he did not let go as Grant stood on unsteady legs, letting himself be pulled with the other.

It was like he had been waiting an eternity to feel that hand in his again, and he didn't wish to let it go. They looked at each other with a shared understanding.

Grant gave an unsure smile and unable to comprehend any other thoughts, muttered. "Do you permit it?"

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><p>Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think.<p> 


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